


A Tournament Most Fowl

by Le_Me



Series: Ouroboros [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Animal Transformation, Assassination Plot(s), Attempted Murder, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Ron Weasley, Death Eaters, Drama, Fred Lives, Fred Weasley Lives, Gen, Greek and Roman Mythology - Freeform, Gryffindor vs. Slytherin Rivalry, Humor, Inappropriate Humor, Minor Character Death, Mystery, Mythical Beings & Creatures, No Slash, Plot Twists, Polyjuice Potion, Post Hogwarts AU, Quidditch, Renamed Story, Sabotage, Scandal, Secret Organizations, Sexual Humor, Slytherins Being Slytherins, Spies & Secret Agents, Suspense, Tournaments
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-03-24 19:12:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3781162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Le_Me/pseuds/Le_Me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When it's decided a Hogwarts revival quidditch tournament is just what's needed after the 2nd Wizarding War, the students take a seat, and the old teams are back to partake in the competition. However, with so many old habits in the mix, is it a wonder that things soon start to deteriorate? Probably not. But something's definitely putting the Auror department in a flap; could there be more to this contest than meets the eye?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ornithomancy

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Own anything, I do not.
> 
> A/N: No slash, no pairings, all places, and products sold at WWW, are canon.
> 
> AU; this story takes place post-DH in August - September 1999 just before the start of a new term at Hogwarts.

_"The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing."_

_\- Edmund Burke_

 

_23 rd August 1999  
_

Sunday finally rolled over bringing the first rays of Monday light, which fought against black heady clouds to illuminate the Hogwarts grounds. The dew clinging to the wild grass sparkled and twinkled whilst a cold, sharp gale from across the barren moors rustled heather, heath, and the four houses’ fabric banners, making them beat rhythmically upon the solid wooden stands of the large quidditch pitch.

Madam Hooch looked proudly upon the sight. Although the ancient stadium would never again be the same since the Battle of Hogwarts, she and the teachers had restored it to the best of their ability; the new grand oaken rooks had each been given a fresh fabric pelt courtesy of the small army of house-elves that remained in the castle, Filius Flitwick had recharmed the new set of quidditch balls – opting for a slightly less violent set of bludgers, as the last set, when last released, had tried to cave the skull in of anyone in the vicinity of their case, apparently taking the side of Voldemort during the siege – and Pomona Sprout had taken care of the grounds by patching up the veldt as best she could, at times a losing battle judging by the many mole-sized mounds of earth that littered the sward in constellation like patterns.

But all things considered, it still looked as regal and impressive as it ever had.

“Mornin’ Rolanda.”

Madam Hooch looked about at the sound of her name to see the large game keeper walking towards her across the hill, black hair and beard whipping maniacally in the raw air. An equally large dog trotted by his side, tongue lolling.

“Good morning, Hagrid, ” she called over the howl.

With his great strides, Hagrid was beside her in moments, clutching under one arm what appeared to be a large furry sack, and smiling broadly. “You’re up sharp, usually just me n’ Fang out ‘ere first thing of a day.”

The boarhound sniffed around Madam Hooch’s feet for a moment, panted satisfactorily, then rolled onto a hind leg to scratch gawkily at an ear.

“Just giving the place one last look over before the hoards arrive,” she said, indicating to her left. “The storm really packed a wallop last night, I just wanted to check that we still had a pitch to play on come today.”

“She was a fierce one righ’ enough,” said Hagrid. “A ruddy bad wind we’re ‘avin’; I’ve done nuthin’ but clear branches up since Saturday. Mind you, they’re coming in ‘andy for patchin’ up the ‘oles they made in me hut roof in the firs’ place.” The half-giant grunted out a laugh. “And we’ll not be runnin’ out of firewood anytime soon, I can tell ye that.”

“As long as the school broomsticks are not included in that collection,” she added with a raised eyebrow. “Although saying that, perhaps it wouldn’t be a terrible idea to dispose of them while we can. I’ve most definitely seen woodlice in increasing number hanging around those brooms on more than one occasion.”

“S’why I’m ‘ere – o’ sorts – to suss out a critter problem, on Professor Sprout’s orders. Apparently the nifflers are causing havoc again, poor woman’s at her wit’s end with the green.”

“There’s always something,” said the coach apparently thinking out loud. “But I wouldn’t bother yourself, Hagrid,” she went on, offhandedly, “if it were up to Pomona every spare inch of grass in Hogwarts would be meticulously preened and watered within an inch of its life. Pristine grounds are not a necessity in a flying sport, you’d only be wasting your time.”

“I’m jus’ sort of curious more n’ anything, funny place to find an infestation. But y’know, I’ll bet it’s the metal screws from the original stands they’re after, from when the wood burned down las’ year. Soil mus’ be full of ‘em.”

The gale began to blow harder and Hagrid had to bellow to be heard over the roar. “Although, underground is probably the bes’ place for ‘em righ’ now, s’not too safe on the surface for any small critter.”

“I’m to assume these are a few casualties, then,” said Madam Hooch, her piercing yellow eyes landing on the swaying furry bundle which she now realised was a collection of small woodland animal carcasses; a few rabbits and small rodents, but mainly, birds.

The gamekeeper nodded and almost looked a tad solemn. “That’s righ’, keep findin’ the poor mites scattered abou’, particularly round the Willow – bloody menace. Thought I’d skin ‘n pluck ‘em ‘n give the meat to the thestrals, afore the owls get ‘em all, no point goin’ to waste ‘n all that.”

Icy rain soon joined the bitter gust and Madam Hooch raised her arm to protect her eyes from the furor. When it died down, she pulled her robes around herself more tightly and sniffed.

“Well, everything looks in order to my eyes, but I certainly don’t envy those practising in this.” She glanced down once more at the string of game. “Hopefully those fodder carcasses are the only type you’ll be peeling off the ground before the day is through, Hagrid.”

Hagrid gave out another gruff laugh. “If those kids can play in the middle of an ice storm with abou’ thirty dementors curlin’ round ‘em, n’ still manage to stay on their brooms at the finish, I reckon they’ll be jus’ fine with a bit o’ bracin’ weather,” he said, emphasising the last part with a fist pat to the chest. “Made of tougher stuff than us, most o’ them lot.”

“Evidently,” said Madam Hooch, beginning to turn slowly towards the castle when the rain began to beat down harder, “as I’ve barely been out here ten minutes and all I would like to partake in right now is a hot cup of tea and a crumpet.”

“Get yerself inside, Rolanda, no sense in freezin’ out here when ye don’t have to be. I’ll see the pitch keeps upright…As long as the niffler’s haven’t seen fit to chew the bolts from the new scaffoldin’ yet, o‘course,” he added as an afterthought.

“Better you than I,” said the referee beginning to walk away, “because if Oliver Wood arrives here with his team in a few hours and finds a pile of timber where a stadium once stood, not even Potter will be able to save us from _that_ particular storm.”

And she huddled up the trail towards the castle, whilst Hagrid gambled after Fang in the direction of the pitch, laughing over the wuthering squall.

* * *

Professor McGonagall made her way up into the cool Great Hall in preparation for breakfast, finding some of her colleagues already present in their flanking positions on the staff table. The Hall echoed slightly with every shuffle and scrape of chairs, each sound heightened with the lack of sufficient background chatter usually provided by a room full of pupils; still early, it was usually expected that very few staff would be present for the earliest part of the morning meal, most taking advantage of a lie-in while they still had the chance.

The headmistress had certainly had her work cut out since her appointment at the culmination of the Battle; leading the colossal team of volunteers which turned the castle around in just over a year, offering as much support as she could to the Ministry in the crack down against free-roaming death eaters, and now planning and hosting a quidditch tournament on top of everything. She had ignored the numerous suggestions to _‘calm down’_ and ‘ _let someone else do that’_ by her friends and fellows over the past months, which only appeared to’ve exonerated her more in the eyes of some as the perfect choice for the job.

Professor Flitwick nodded curtly to her whilst biting into a piece of toast. “Good morning, Minerva.”

“Good morning, Filius,” she said, sitting heavily with a sigh in the centre seat. “Pomona, Poppy,” she nodded to each, who returned the greeting.

“Oh my bones, another chilly Hall,” groaned the headmistress pulling her robes about herself more tightly before pouring a cup of tea. “I may take to wearing ear muffs for breakfast should this endure.”

“Rolanda said the same thing; you just missed her, by the way,” said Flitwick.

Professor McGonagall cupped the hot china in her hands and looked over. “Oh? She’ll not be joining us?”

“She informs us that the quidditch pitch is in working order, although she, _‘can’t comment on its sturdiness should this bloody wind keep up,_ ” said Professor Sprout with a smile, leaning forward slightly to be seen from down the table.

“She’s been out in _this?_ Already?” said McGonagall aghast, indicating to a window behind her where the rain was now bombarding the glass, and the wind was whistling strong through the small gaps between the panes and the stonework. “She couldn’t have waited?”

“She didn’t stay too long to divulge much, said something about, _‘going off to thaw out,’_ and promptly left again,” said Sprout, beginning to chop banana into a bowl of porridge.

“Silly woman, she’s probably caught her death out there,” remarked Madam Pomfrey with a disapproving expression. “She’s not going to be much good to anyone If she’s pneumonia-riddled during this quidditch tournament.”

“If it goes ahead,” said Sprout, apparently thinking out loud. “But I wouldn’t bother yourself, Poppy,” she went on, offhandedly, “if it were up to Rolanda there’d be 9am quidditch matches every Sunday during term, with compulsory attendance to boot, no matter the elements. We’d all be catching our death then.”

There was a small cracking sound and a few house elves appeared in the hall next to the large blazing fire, seemingly to tend to it. It had taken some time for the elves to accept the new equality regime, that they were allowed to be seen during the day time by witches and wizards when seeing to their duties; many still refused, a lifetime of conditioning proving too much to overcome. But little by little they seemed, at least, to be getting more accustomed to the idea, especially when an individual or two led by example; no one would’ve ever assumed that Kreacher would’ve taken on such a role, as he prodded the embers with an iron poker, waved pleasantly to the staff, and encouraged his uncomfortable brethren to do the same unfortunately by poking _them_. At least he was taking baby steps.

“Speaking of quidditch matches, I notice that we’re on page 2 of the _Prophet,_ ” said Flitwick brandishing his copy of the paper at McGonagall. He squinted at the headline peevishly, and shook his head. “Although, how the Minister’s hat-knocking altercation with the supreme Mugwump is more fitting for page 1 than the grand re-opening of this school, I shall never know.”

“If you think that’s ridiculous you should read what they were arguing about,” scoffed Sprout as McGonagall took the copy from the charms professor and began to read. “But I don’t know what a _Sasabonsam_ is, nor why Mr Akingbade feels Kingsley’s mother should resemble one.”

****

**_HOGWARTS SCHOOL RE-OPENING – OFF WITHOUT A SNITCH_ **

**By Andy Smudgley**

_‘Not a single quaffle thrown, not a single snitch caught, but already the upcoming quidditch inspired grand re-opening of Hogwarts has generated quite the super charged atmosphere worthy of the World Cup itself._

_The newly refurbished school - which underwent herculean restoration efforts all through 1998/99 led by newly appointed headmistress, Professor Minerva McGonagall, successor of the late cherished Headmaster Albus Dumbledore - will soon be playing host to an exciting, alumni-led quidditch tournament in order to kick off the new unmarred chapter in Hogwarts’ history._

_Participants in the event will include big names like Roger Davies, 22, - reserve chaser of the Montrose Magpies, and Oliver Wood, 22, – reserve keeper for Puddlemere United; the two teams which will be going head to head in the November finals for the British and Irish Quidditch League. But ofcourse, a celebrity tournament would not be complete without newly appointed Auror, and wizarding world hero, Harry Potter, 18, who will be reprising his role of Seeker for the Gryffindor team._

_Potter had this to say, “I think it’s a fantastic idea, what better way to turn the page than with something that everyone loves – quidditch, y’know? And I think I speak for everyone when I say I didn’t want my last memory of being at Hogwarts to be…what it was. When [Oliver] Wood approached me about it I knew I couldn’t say no…but to be honest he didn’t give me much choice in the matter. Told me that nothing I’m doing right now is more important than this tournament and to, ‘get my, er,_ behind _on my Firebolt and get practising again’. He can get pretty crazed about quidditch, a little bit unhealthy I think…but don’t tell anyone I said that.”_

_In the months leading up to the opening, the school’s ancient pitch – reduced to a pile of smoking embers following the attacks in May – was meticulously rebuilt, reclothed and resewn in preparation for the big event. But with hundreds of volunteers prepared to give up their time to revive the loved school, work was completed in record time._

_However, even with the giant load of planning and preparations on her shoulders, as well as the task of rebuilding a school, Headmistress McGonagall still had time to rustle up a few surprises for the teams._

_“[…] I won’t give it away, but I will say that there’s going to be other prizes in store for outstanding players in the tournament, apart from the glory of winning the house cup.”_

_The finals will be expected to take place on Tuesday the 7 th of September, but all are welcome to attend all aspects of the games._

_“You can place your bets at Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes of 93 Diagon Alley, London,” says Potter. “Just don’t accept their quill to fill in the parchment, apparently it turns into an eel if you do.”_

_[Hogwarts Restored; Continued on Pages 4, 5 and 6.]’_

 

“You kept that one quiet, Minerva,” said Sprout, leaning over Flitwick to glance at the page. “Care to share these _surprises_?”

Professor McGonagall put down the paper, looking a tad indifferent. “To be honest it wasn’t even my idea. It was Bagman’s.”

“Oh lord,” said Flitwick with a grimace. “He’s not going to be joining in is he?”

“Thankfully not,” said McGonagall, not exactly hiding her relief. “No, he approached me whilst I was at the Ministry to meet with the Head of the Transportation Dept, I was interested in maybe setting up some apparition points incase we’re inundated with spectators. But anyway, Ludo came up to me as I was leaving, and said he thought it’d spice up the contest a bit to give a guaranteed place in the tryouts for the reserves of the English National Team to the most outstanding player.”

“That’s quite a prize,” said Flitwick slightly taken aback. “And _Bagman_ suggested it?”

“I smell a sweep,” said Sprout.

“That’s what I told him,” said McGonagall, eyebrow raised. “But he was adamant that he’d play no part in the gambling and just thought it’d make a more interesting competition. I couldn’t find any reason why not so I told him he could sign away as long as kept his nose out of the bookies.”

“He’s definitely up to something,” continued Sprout, without looking up.

“Maybe he _has_ learned his lesson,” mused Madam Pomfrey. “Spending 6 months on the run from goblins is bound to change one’s priorities.”

“Well, I shan’t be holding my breath,” said McGonagall shrewdly, picking up the Daily Prophet once more and turning a few pages.

 

**_NOTT SO INNOCENT AFTER ALL?_ **

**_By R. Almeidus_ **

 

**ANOTHER KETTLE OF FISH – NEW DEVELOPMENTS TIP THE SCALES**

**_By A. Fenetre_ **

 

**OCCAM’S RAZOR SLICES INTO MUGGLE POULTRY FARMING**

**_By Andy Smudgley_ **

 

**A SNAKE IN THE GRASS? OR JUST A DARK HORSE? – THE CURIOUS HUNT CONTINUES**

**_By E. Limus_ **

 

“Sometimes it feels as though Voldemort is still running around, with all these investigations,” frowned McGonagall. “Mysterious goings on, disappearances, people you think you knew showing their true colours…”

Professor Flitwick glanced over his teacup at her with a knowing look. “You’re referring to…?”

Professor McGonagall pointed at a particular headline, and the charms professor nodded solemnly.

“I thought as much,” he said, taking a sip of tea. “Yes, read it earlier. Of all the _harebrained_ -”

The headmistress became a bit ruffled. “I mean, all things considered, I’m not entirely surprised, it’s well within character. It’s just…I mean… _surely_ you would at least have the sense to keep a low profile - especially if you’d attained _that_ level of experience!” she said slightly incredulous. “Not that I’m defending the practise…”

“And then not turning up to your own hearing,” said Sprout joining in with a tut. “By the sounds of things there was no warning, Magical Law Enforcement just landed and raided the place; no-body home, but found _all_ sorts…But saying that, had I been in the same situation I might’ve done a runner too.”

“Aptly put,” said Poppy.

Sprout raised her glass in acknowledgement of the inside joke.

“Definitely sounds like a tip off,” Flitwick stated. “The MLE don’t just turn up without a good reason.”

“Considering they reported talk of the hearing in the paper 2 weeks ago, suggests they’ve known of something for quite some time,” said McGonagall.

“Suppose Lucius Malfoy knew something?” pointed out Sprout. “He’s made it pretty clear that he’s not afraid to drop anyone in the dung heap these days, if it means he stays out of the slammer.”

“If that’s true then that just raises more questions than answers,” said McGonagall, critically.

The plump witch nodded. “Thankfully it’s not our job to answer them.”

“The Magical Law Enforcement say they found ' _years worth of experimentation,”_ said McGonagall, aghast, as she read further on. “It really makes you think on what the motives were when you get to numbers like that. Was it for research or something darker?”

“Who can say?” said Sprout. “But if I had to guess I’d go for morbid curiosity and the thrill of the danger of it. Like Hagrid and his bloody skrewts.”

“And the local chicken farms getting involved…”

Flitwick let out a mirthless laugh. “Definitely not a coincidence. Pure carelessness in my opinion.”

“Dear Merlin,” sighed McGonagall poring over the text.

“The part that get’s me is where they say _‘signs of spell damage to the inside,”_ said Sprout buttering a crumpet. “Almost as if there’d been a struggle.”

“Yes, that certainly never bodes well, and especially in _these_ cirumstances, it bodes even worse,” pointed out Flitwick. “If one is firing stunning spells at the walls then it either means you’re trying to keep something out, or trying to keep something in.”

“Or you’re under the influence of something,” said Pomfrey knowledgeably.

All cocked their head in admittance.

“Well I hope for all our sakes that it’s the last option,” said the headmistress, putting down the paper. “A drunken individual is a damn sight more favourable to deal with than an unhinged one, as we all know.”

The atmosphere took on a slightly more grave quality as she muttered these words. Although the events of the last year had already seemed so long ago, certain sights and sounds would forever be pressed into the memories of the staff. The defeat of Voldemort had come with a hefty price to both life and lot.

“On the subject of sight, you aren’t looking yourself this morning, Minerva,” said Pomfrey with a critical eye, peering over her cup at her.

McGonagall waved a hand dismissively. “Nothing to worry about Poppy, I can assure you. Just a bad night’s sleep is all; I’d be surprised if anyone was fully rested this morning with the howling we were at the mercy of last night. Just after I’d finally managed to get to sleep, a huge bird flew noisily into my window around 4 o’ clock this morning,” she divulged, grimacing slightly. “I near had kittens, no pun intended.”

There was a sudden gasp at the other side of the staff table, shortly followed by the sound of the trophy room door closing shut, and a cacophony of metal objects colliding with one another, as if someone who was prone to wearing wrist bangles had placed their hands to their mouth in fright.

McGonagall jerked around at the sound. “Oh! Professor Trelawney, I didn’t even see you come in.”

“Speaking of drunken individuals…” muttered Sprout under her breath.

Professor Trelawney, however, did not return the greeting, but rather continued to look horror struck at the headmistress. Her magnified eyes appeared even larger than usual under her thick spectacles, and a skeletal hand gripped her heart as she began whispering to herself. “The seventh sign, it has occurred…”

“…Professor Trelawney?”

“Minerva – my dear – was it living? Or did it meet its demise? O-of what kind was it? A rook? A lark?”

McGonagall blinked. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me, Sybill.”

The crazed-looking woman shuffled slightly along the table, stumbling over a chair in the process. “My dear, _‘if the bird in fleeing the tempest should perish upon the pane, great turmoil will befall the house of its passing,_ ” she recited, ghostily.

A couple of the teachers rolled their eyes.

But Trelawney went on, not seeing them. “Tis one of the oldest omen’s of death in the world! The demise of the crow family is the worst of all, and foretells of dark happenings to come, and great danger.”

The fire gave out an especially loud snap.

“No, I’m afraid that I didn’t manage to catch the particular species, Sybill,” said McGonagall dryly. “But I’m sure the creature flew away just fine.”

The old occultist hadn’t mellowed much since the war, if anything, becoming a bit more gung ho with her various predictions and mystical gossipings since learning of her prophecies about Harry Potter. Just over the past six weeks alone, she had claimed to’ve predicted profound future events of 16 people, and seen no less than 27 omens of misfortune pertaining to each member of staff at least once. To be fair, the faculty hadn’t found this too distressing, since many of them had placed bets on the various outcomes within the British and Irish quidditch league; since 3 of the teams had already been pulled due to several blatant acts of sabotage – such as cursing the beater’s bats of opposing teams to strike the holder around the head and neck every time they were swung – and possession of physically enhancing substances like Niffler Retina Concentrate – which when taken gives the recipient highly keen vision for metallic objects – many felt that their quota of ‘misfortune’ had been met with the loss of their gold.

“Won’t you sit and have some breakfast?” said McGonagall a bit more chipper, indicating to the chair next to her.

Professor Trelawney began to wring her hands, but her voice gained more strength as if she was steeling herself. “I had only planned to descend this morning with the intention of passing on a message, Headmistress. The _concerns_ I came to you about are unwavering, and I would urge you more than ever to heed the signs before it is too late.”

Professor McGonagall put down her cup, and looked over her glasses. “And I recall telling you I cannot cancel this competition when all manner of checks have been made to ensure that it runs like clockwork, and nothing has been revealed. I have had Rolanda check the pitch umpteen times since its renewal, and all of the teachers have been extra vigilant in concerns to sabotage-”

Pomona coughed slightly and turned a page of _The Daily Prophet._

“-and there is nothing out of the ordinary to suggest any sort of foul play,” she finished.

Professor Trelawney inflated slightly. “Each time I draw the cards: The Moon, The Devil and The Seven of Swords! Plot, obsession, and stealth. Each time I read the leaves: The Toad, The Claw and The Serpent! Deceit, scandal, and a spiteful enemy.”

Her mouth went incredibly thin for a moment, almost rivaling similar expressions by Professor McGonagall, before continuing. “I approached the Headmaster with these same concerns before the _events_ of the tower. He also chose to ignore the warnings.”

The table went quiet save for the gusts of wind and water against the castle.

“He did not ignore you, Sybill,” said McGonagall, gently. “Just as I am not ignoring you, now.”

Trelawney became less gesticulative for a moment, and looked towards the windows sulkily. “Even… _the nag_ proposes caution after reading the heavens. _Not_ that I would take the word of one of his _ilk_ over my own, but some manifestations are even visible to those with the poorest sight.”

Professor McGonagall took on an unreadable expression for a moment. She had not seen Firenze for a long while, not since the centaurs had opted to let him return to the forest. As the divination teacher had always spoken ill of the being, she was slightly confused how they’d apparently been in contact. But then remembering who she was talking to, she decided not to dwell on the accuracy of the claim. “Thankyou Sybill, once more, I shall keep all that in mind.”

The headmistress kept finding herself uncharacteristically wary these days whenever she heard of one of the divination teacher’s foreboding portents, especially the ones where she would be physically visited by the woman. Were it not for the fact that she had been personally told by Harry of the events leading up to the final battle between himself and Voldemort, and the surprising truth behind the seer’s words, she’d currently be turning the other cheek as she would’ve done months ago.

But before she could ponder anymore on the subject, Mr Filch the caretaker came through the grand doors to the hall looking equal parts baffled and incredulous.

“Yes Mr Filch?” called the headmistress. “Is something the matter.”

There was a bustling sound coming from the entrance hall, and a multitude of raised voices.

“Are we expecting a maintenance crew, Ma’am?” said the scraggly man, his jowls aquiver.

“No, why?”

“Because a bunch of rain-sodden cloaked wizards have just turned up with broomsticks, and said they’re here to _‘give the quidditch pitch a bloody good seeing to,_ ” said Filch _,_ as the air outside groaned and roiled around the castle grounds, stripping trees evermore of their branches, and ruffling the feathers of a lone supine, black rook; the unseeing eyes fixed on its grand oaken counterparts from the base of Gryffindor tower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Some eagle-eyed readers may find quite the few Easter eggs littered about this story...I'll say no more


	2. The Red Queen Effect

_“Progress is man's ability to complicate simplicity.”  
_

_\- Thor Heyerdahl_

 

The heavy wooden hatch clashed off the solid wall behind it as raw air, sleet, and six pairs of heavy duty red boots caked with grass, water, and sleck entered the passage. Broom handles clattered against the weather-beaten stony sides adding to the cacophony of squeaking leather, wind, and whimpering from the individuals shuffling out of the furor. The air inside the damp way was heady with the smell of petrichor, but numb noses could only take note of the temperature change provided by the sheltered changing room when the door closed, and the argands lit.

“I can’t believe Harry is still out there quite literally going for gold,” said a low Scottish voice, tinged with annoyance, “when I only lasted five minutes.”

But the diatribe didn’t last long, as they never had done before when in the presence of a certain pair.

“Don’t worry Oli-“

“-it can happen to the most experienced of men.”

Wood stopped and turned behind him to glare at the sniggering redheads, that is until an old memory surfaced and his eyes gleamed. “But of course. Angelina would know all about that. Right, Fred?” said the Captain with a coy smile.

The rest of the team exploded in laughter at the inside joke whilst the couple in question were left with an open mouth and a set of pursed lips.

“Aaand Captain Oliver Wood deflects a _devastating_ bludger right back at beater Frederick Weasley. The crowd doesn’t know how to react! It’s never happened before!” commentated George in an over-the-top rendition.

“I’m so proud of you Oli,” said Fred, wiping away an imaginary tear and beginning to snivel melodramatically like an emotional mother. “Those Puddlemere boys must be a good influence on you after all. I always knew this day would come, his _first comeback_ , but it still doesn’t prepare you for the real thing!” he went on, moving to sit down on one of the low benches and proceed to wail.

The keeper rolled his eyes. “Oh shut up,” he said with a long suffering laugh, beginning to wring out his sleeves.

George continued to grin, but watched his twin with a critical eye. Only from extended experience could he note – under the melodramatics – the stiff posture, creased eyes, and white knuckle grip on the bench; Fred was in pain again. But George had learned, under firm instruction, to reel himself in in the emotion department ever since they’d left St Mungo’s hospital those few months ago. When in the past he’d have approached his brother outright in whatever company, to question him on his discomfort, and ensure that he was alright, now, eye contact was usually sufficient.

Although they were already pretty good at decoding each other’s well being just from a glance, George felt that he had it down to an art form these days. He could successfully tell an, ‘ _I need help,’_ from an, _‘I’m fine, stop nagging,’_ and a, _‘not great, but I’ll live’_ – the message he was receiving at present – with surprising accuracy.

He still found it difficult, even after all this time, to not worry about Fred whatever he was doing. The image of his brother’s vacant eyes, pallid skin and tattered clothing, lying on a body bag in the Great Hall still gave him sweats in the middle of the night. The crushing abyssal pain of losing Fred, then the shock of learning via Madam Pomfrey that his heart was actually intermittently beating, then the whirlwind of urgency and pure _emergency_ of him and the rest of the family getting him to St Mungo’s, had nearly destroyed him physically and emotionally.

 _‘79% total skeletal trauma, hepatic, renal and intestinal perforations, pneumothorax, intracranial edema, severe internal haemorrhaging, spinal hematoma-‘_ the list had gone on and on, and George had neither paid attention to what had been said by the army of healers, nor did he really understand half of it anyway – certainly not after Fred had clinically died three times on the operating table, and especially not when half of his soul had been lying in intensive care on a hospital bed attached to every monitor and piece of apparatus you could possibly have hooked up to a human being. The only thing he could take in was the gentle voice of the elderly matron, when she came by to do her rounds on that first day of recovery. _‘He’ll live.’_

The coma had endured for just over three months, and it had been the most challenging three months of George’s life. Every day he sat next to the hospital bed – ignoring the pleas from his family to come home and rest – worrying, praying. What if Fred never woke up? What if he’d gone to hell and back, been brought back from beyond the veil, just to never wake up again? What if he did wake up, but years from now, to a world where everyone had grown up, and moved on? What if he woke up, but _he_ had changed? Nobody knew of the true severity of the brain damage sustained in the blast…what if Fred wasn’t Fred anymore? George honestly didn’t know what was worse.

The day it had finally happened was one in which he barely remembered now. Between the joy, and the tears, and the weight being lifted off his heart at long last – it had gone by in a haze of emotion so strong that reality had failed to get a look in. He didn’t think he’d been happier in his life than at the moment he’d looked into his twin’s eyes, and Fred had looked right back at him, eyes filled with recognition and love. The following slurred and mixed up, ‘ _You worse look than me,’_ was a close second; even Percy had been crying at that point. And George knew, from that moment on, everything would be okay.

Naturally the following months of physio and brain therapy had been gruelling, but Fred was a trooper, pushing himself as hard as he dared to get walking and talking again – but more importantly, back to work. Looking at him now, apart from the nerve pain he now had to live with, reduced function in his liver and kidneys, and the bouts of dyspraxia, no-one would have ever known Fred Weasley had played tag with the Grim Reaper and won.

George came out of his reverie into mid-conversation. He saw that Fred was giving him a knowing smile.

“-miracle anyone managed to stay on their brooms for five minutes. When _Hooch_ is warning you about the conditions you know it’s gona be a doozy. She did say we could have another slot if need be, since y’know, no other team was mental enough to sign up for today.” The exasperation in Angelina’s voice was hard to miss.

Everyone knew that tone all too well, including the Captain who decided to tread carefully. “It’s just…I was _sure_ we had worse during the dementor attack,” he said, breathing hot air into his hands, and looking a tad sheepish. “Although now I guess I sit corrected.”

“Well while you sit there I’m going to get out of these wet clothes,” said Katie bustling off into the girls’ section. “Then we can discuss how we’re going to salvage this, preferably in the common room in front of the fire.”

“Yes good idea, Kate,” said Angelina in pursuit, soon followed by Alicia.

Unable to resist, Fred called out, “If you girls need any help just, y’know, give us a shout!”

“Thanks,” replied Angelina, stopping to look him dead in the eye, “but we usually just help each other.”

And with that the three smirking girls disappeared around the corner leaving all three of them to look on after.

“I can’t be the only one who’s thought it,” remarked Fred after a beat, as Harry chose that moment to pile noisily into the room with golden snitch in hand, triumphant shout, and half the weather right behind him.

George and Oliver simply shook their heads meekly.

* * *

 “I’ve just realised we haven’t seen you since your birthday, mate,” said George taking one side of the sofa in front of the blazing fire in the Gryffindor common room.

“Yeah, how you keepin’, Hart?” continued Fred claiming the other half, as was his wont.

Harry was about to interject that _he_ was the one who should be asking Fred that question, considering that, for all intents and purposes, the larger than life twin shouldn’t’ve been there at all had nature taken its course. But through all the months of pain, and healing and recuperation, Harry had to remind himself that he’d probably been asked that very question so many times it was likely causing him more grief than his injuries at this point.

Harry flopped down into an armchair soon copied by Wood on the other side. He didn’t answer straight away, because the first thought that came to his head, after the wellbeing of his friend, was that it was a strange feeling being back in this room – a room that had been redecorated and rebuilt from rubble, essentially. On the one hand it was so full of happy memories, and experiences, that he felt he’d come back home in a way – and yet on the other hand, it was almost unnerving; the place, where for so many nights, thoughts had lingered on dark plots, evil happenings, and snake-like faces. How many times had he looked into that fire and wondered if he’d ever get the opportunity to do it again, all the while happy voices chattered around him, discussing homework and friends and what they were doing over the weekend. The place felt marred in a way, corrupted from change. It was familiar, yet off.

The smell of the logs in the fire, and the leather armchairs, and the remains of the ancient wallpaper filled his nostrils. It was different than before; new, but definitely an improvement on the last time he’d been here, when all that’d filled the air was the smell of burning plaster, the vaporised castle stonework, and the ozone left over from thousands of spell bursts.

It was sobering how the events of one day could almost overshadow six years of happy school life.

Apparently this all showed on his face, though, as he caught Fred, George and Oliver looking at him with concerned eyes.

He was about to say, ‘Fine,’ but then remembering who he was talking to, and the annoying ability they had for reading people like a book, opted for honesty instead. “Busy more than anything. _Too_ busy. Youngest Auror in history may sound glamourous but it doesn’t half take it out of you. Ginny jokes that I’m getting grey hairs.”

Fred, about to interject with a witty response, was unfortunately beaten to the punch.

“Thing is, you’re the most qualified out of everyone, mate,” said Oliver with a laugh, shifting around to get more comfortable in the old seat. “And things have bound to’ve calmed down since May.”

The dubious look didn’t go unnoticed. “You’d think that, but I swear it was easier when Voldemort was still alive, at least then I had clear idea of what I had to do, but _now…_ ” He sighed heavily. “What started as a simple case of seek and destroy has changed into something, I don’t know, _darker_ in the past few months.”

“What do you mean, Harry?” asked George with eyebrows furrowed, as Fred and Oliver started to pay more attention.

The fire swayed violently, as a breeze came down the chimney, letting out a snap and a curl.

Harry watched it as it thrashed. “Finding scared death eaters on the run is one thing, but then it’s like, weird news, and more disappearances. When Voldemort was on the prowl last time, before he revealed himself, it was the same sort of thing.” He looked pensive for a second. “And when you add that to the business with Snape and now Nott...I’m convinced something’s brewing. Kingsley thinks so too.”

There was a pregnant pause.

“God, Ron doesn’t tell us anything!” grumbled Fred, before he called out, “Kreacher!”

Before anyone could ask what on Earth he was doing, there was a CRACK and the old leathery house elf himself appeared in front of the four of them almost instantaneously. He beamed when he saw Harry.

“Master has returned to Hogwarts! Kreacher is so pleased to see Master in such good health,” said the elf, bowing so low that his nose dusted the floor.

“Hello Kreacher,” said Harry, dazedly, a bit lost at the situation. “Nice to see you too.”

He returned the offered handshake from the elf and watched amazed as he turned to Fred and George with an equally large smile. “And Messrs Weasley, how can Kreacher be of service to Master’s friends?”

“I was just wondering that myself,” said George, slightly baffled.

“Kreacher,” began Fred, “we’re about to get into a serious gossip session and are going to need plenty of tea to go with it. Could you perhaps prepare some for us?”

The elf looked ecstatic to be doing something for someone again. He bowed low once more, speaking into the ground, “of course Master Weasley, Kreacher will bring some tea and biscuits right away.”

And he disappeared with another CRACK.

Harry had certainly not been expecting such a change from the ancient elf, and in such a short amount of time, considering the last time he’d been in Fred and George’s company he’d called them, _‘nasty blood-traitor brats,’_ and proceeded to ignore everything about the Weasleys from henceforth. He’d have put it down to mind altering Wheezes’ products had he not experienced Kreacher’s metamorphosis first-hand.

“Huh,” said George simply, looking at the spot the elf just vanished from. “Why didn’t I think of that.”

“Story of your life, innit.”

“ _Serious gossip session?”_ reiterated Wood looking rather incredulous, whilst George just looked highly unimpressed – most likely with himself for his inability to think of a retort; the irony wasn’t lost on him. “What are we, having a girly sleep over too?”

Fred gasped. “How did you _know?_ ” he said, camping it up for all his worth with a limp wristed flick.

Not missing a beat, George grasped Oliver’s left hand. “First things first, we’re fixing those cuticles!” he lisped, narrowly avoiding the slap aimed at his head.

Harry vaguely wondered why his face was hurting until he realised it was because he was grinning so hard. Although Ron and Hermione would forever be considered his number one friends, and Ginny was now firmly planted somewhere around there too, sometimes there was no beating the twins’ company. The big brother-type banter was something that he’d never really had until he’d met them, and the rest of the Weasley brothers for that matter. They were the sort of people who’s company you never realised you’d missed until it was all over you. And it usually took some getting off.

Nevertheless, Harry schooled himself. “And just what makes you think I’m in a divulgatory mood?” he said trying to sound serious, eyebrows visible over his glasses. “Or that I _can_ divulge anything?”

Ever the salesman, Fred slipped into haggle mode immediately. “Well mate, it’s either this, or _that_ ,” he said with feigned indifference, pointing to the window where the rain and sleet was now coming down in lakes. “The captain here would have no problems going for Round Two, would you Cap’?”

“Nope,” stated Wood simply as he regarded Harry, arms crossed.

And Harry knew damn well he was telling the honest to God truth. “Fair enough,” he said, not even putting up a fight.

Kreacher returned soon after with tea for four, and various plates of multi-coloured cakes and biscuits. Only once the elf had gone, and every one of them held a steaming cup and a sweet, did the mood suddenly take a slightly more serious turn.

“Spill,” Fred said without question. “Unless it’s top secret…then do it anyway, just in a more enigmatic tone,” he added, wiggling his fingers for dramatic effect.

Harry rolled his eyes and moved to sit sideways on the armchair, whilst trying not to spill his tea, legs lying over the arm rest so he could face the trio. “None of this leaves the room.”

Only when three ‘scout’s honour’s replied, and George cast a quick _Muffliato_ about them, did he begin.

“Well, a couple of weeks ago, we captured Nott; he was one of the death eaters in Voldemort’s ‘outer’ circle I guess you’d call it. Well, I say captured, he sort of just wandered into our midst – didn’t even put up a fight, nor did he really say anything.”

“You think he’d had enough?” said Wood curiously. “Of running, I mean,” he clarified needlessly.

“I don’t think so,” said Harry tentatively. “You see, he wasn’t making much sense, didn’t really know what was going on even as we questioned him. And his answers were just all over the place. Yet he seemed calm, and lucid, just…vacant.”

“A memory charm.”

“Yes,” said Harry, nodding at George, “his memory had been wiped, and although whoever did appeared to’ve done a piss-poor job of it, it had been enough.”

“Can you reverse it? Or use veritaserum to get more info out of him?” asked Wood.

“Veritaserum only uncovers truths that the recipient is aware of,” said George knowledgeably. “If the person has lost the plot, the potion won’t work on them.”

“Yeah, what he said,” indicated Harry in an aloof manner, trying to act as if he’d known that.

It was times like this he was reminded how glad he was that Hermione had decided to take an internship in the Ministry. He’d grown so used to her company that he felt way out of his league when she wasn’t there to help out. Without her knowledge of all things magical and her constant stream of ideas, more times than not he felt like a clueless firstie addressing a room full of expert wizards whenever he had a meeting with the other aurors; which really wasn’t too far from the truth. And it was mainly because of that reason he’d been reluctant to take on such an important case in the first place; only Kingsley’s unwavering faith in him had eventually made him reconsider.

Oliver turned to George in apparent amazement. “Since when did you two pay attention in school?”

“One of us had to,” smirked Fred. “Who’d you think comes up with the potions?”

George toasted his cup.

Harry steered the conversation back. “Obviously the first thing we did was perform _Priori incantatem_ on his wand,” he stated, “and the memory charm was not performed by it.”

“So you think someone had beef with him?” asked Fred in a stage whisper, turning to Harry. “Thought they’d stop him from talking?”

Harry’s eyebrows creased as he glanced once more into the dancing fire; he’d been thinking on this a lot. “It’s hard to say, there’s a lot of different ways someone can end up with a missing memory. Just take a look at Lockhart, used someone else’s wand, but got a face-full of his own spell.”

George smirked. “Oh yeah, forgot about that plonker.”

“But then again, even if someone did the wiping, or it was an accident, it still boils down to someone not wanting someone else to talk,” piped up Wood, “and he was there amongst it.”

Harry sighed. “Which is why we’re turning our attentions to finding Theodore Nott, his son. It’s a good chance they’ve been living together since last year on account of nobody’s seen the pair of them since the Battle.”

“Theo Nott,” drawled Wood, glancing into the corner of the room in thought. “Yeah, I remember him; ratty looking Slytherin bloke; hung around with Malfoy,” he said in a tone of voice which suggested he had a bad taste in his mouth.

“That’s him,” said Harry. “And no, before you ask, the Malfoy’s had no info on him either – we already asked.”

“Have you tried putting out a reward or something similar?” said Wood with a confident smile. “I _bet_ that would get some results.”

“Bad idea,” said Harry immediately, shutting down the keeper. “People are generally a lot easier to find when they don’t know people are looking for them.”

“Ah, yes...Good point.”

George tutted loudly. “ _God_ Ollie, it’s a good thing _you’re_ not on the force. Trelawney and her crystal ball would have a better job tracking down death eaters than you.”

The slap from earlier made its mark this time.

Fred sat back in his seat and tucked his feet underneath him. “Exactly how useful have the Malfoys been?” he asked slowly.

Harry took a sip of tea. “More useful than I could’ve known, actually.” Which was the truth. “So far Lucius has given damning information leading to the arrest of Crabbe, Goyle, Jugson, and Rowle, the blonde one who used to go around with-”

“-Dolohov,” said Fred and George at the same time, their faces a rictus of disgust at the name of the man who had left a gash in the Prewett family forever, and had almost done the same to the Weasleys.

“And I reckon Selwyn and Rosier are soon to follow,” continued Harry, not questioning _that_ look. “Those two have been careless.” He let out a laugh. “Kingsley had the muggle prime minister release pictures of all the death eaters on the news soon after the war. As far as the muggles are concerned they’re escaped convicts; they were actually spotted at a pub in Coventry of all places, completely oblivious to the fact that their faces were on the tele.”

George, uncharacteristically, took on a more steely expression. “How many are left, Harry? To find?”

He didn’t answer straight away, instead taking a deep drink of tea. “Not including the ones I’ve just mentioned…about six. And those are just the ones we know about.”

“Who?” said all three at once.

“The LeStrange brothers, Rodolphus and Rabastan – we reckon they’ll be in the same place, Travers – the cowardly death eater Hermione took down in the Department of Mysteries, Mulciber and Avery – those two kept a low profile anyway, and Yaxley – the one who got away,” said Harry, suddenly looking quite sheepish as he glanced at George.

George sighed but otherwise looked understanding. “I’ve told you mate, don’t beat yourself up about that. You weren’t even involved with his arrest.”

When Oliver began to look quite confused, Fred decided to provide some exposition. He leaned forward so as to see the keeper. “George and Lee kicked seven shades out of him at the Battle, after I was _gifted_ with the castle wall, and he was captured along with the others following the clean up. Unfortunately, the sneaky sod managed to get free and high tail it as he was being transported to Azkaban.”

“Damn,” said Wood, simply.

“Yeah that pretty much sums it up,” said Harry with a grimace, suddenly feeling – and probably looking, he mused – much older than his years.

“But I mean, how’d you even go about tracking these people down, Harry? Especially these lot who seem to be quite good at not being found,” Oliver went on. “Not to state the obvious n’ all, but what about their vaults and so on…”

Harry was shaking his head before he’d even finished the sentence. “Their vaults were emptied even before the Battle took place. The goblins told us it had been a quite common practise amongst the death eaters to get their gold out when things started to go South, even during the 1st Wizarding War.

“The standard methods of tracking aren’t going to work here. It’s an almost 100% surety that we’re dealing with criminals who’re living under fidelius charms, moving around under influence of polyjuice or demiguise etc. and are keeping a very low profile. You’ve got to remember that half of these guys used to work in the Ministry in high up places, and know all the tricks,” said Harry, reiterating what Hermione had told him months ago. He fiddled with his sleeve and scoffed. “It’s a good chance they may not even be in this country anymore.”

“I wouldn’t count your chickens before they’re hatched, Harry,” said George coyly. “Especially considering who the new Junior Undersecretary to the Head of the Department of Magical Transportation is.”

Fred let out a snort. “Yeah, Hart, I can guarantee you that any funny business at all – long distance apparition, unlicensed port key use, anyone with a shifty look using the floo network – and Percy will be on it like stink on shit,” he went on, half in amusement, half in contempt.

“You seem to be talking from experience,” sniggered Wood.

George muttered something less than pleasant under his breath, and Fred groaned, becoming more animated.

“The bloke’s a menace! When we originally set up the floo network in the flat – obviously we knew we had to register it – but we just needed to nip over to mum’s to grab some stuff we’d left behind, so we just, y’know, jimmied open the port – ‘Dung is actually pretty useful for learning stuff like that – and quickly flooed over; _everyone_ does it.”

“You _hotwired_ your own floo?” laughed Harry at the absurdity, but then decided upon reflection that he shouldn’t be surprised in the slightest.

“So when we get back,” George continued, “– we were away for, pff, 10 minutes _tops_ – and there’s a Ministry owl waiting for us in the lab with a letter.”

“And all it says is, ‘ _I saw that, you naughty boys – P,”_ finished Fred with an incredulous look.

Oliver snorted. “That sounds like him.”

“So unless your blokes scarpered to the south of France immediately following the Battle when the Ministry was running around like headless chickens, I reckon there’s a solid chance they’re still here, mate,” said George, logically.

“And with this whole business with Nott, as you say, it sounds like at least some of them are still running around,” concluded Fred. “Hard to wipe an Englishman’s memory if you’re sat in Barbados.”

“If it was done _intentionally_ ,” supplied Harry, nevertheless, now looking more thoughtful.

“Have you two considered working in the auror department?” said Wood, offhandedly.

“And steal Ronnie’s thunder?”

“We couldn’t possibly do that.”

Harry let out a laugh. “Actually some of the research we’re conducting, to help out, was actually his idea.”

“Or his girlfriend’s…” muttered Fred.

“Research?” asked Wood. “Since when does the auror department do research?”

“Well _we_ aren’t,” said Harry taking a bite of French fancy, “but Kingsley granted us pretty much every resource we need to track down the death eaters, which pretty much includes the entire taskforce of the Ministry. For instance, there’s a slew of people looking into the _Taboo_ curse that Voldemort created, for tracking. Ron thought that if we’re able to figure out how to do it, we can place a taboo on certain phrases-”

“-which could lead you to certain people.”

“Exactly,” said Harry, nodding at Wood. “Another big one is putting an embargo on the sale of ingredients used in polyjuice potion – _that_ one was Hermione’s idea,” he said glancing over at Fred, making sure to stress that Hermione hadn’t indeed taken all the glory in all of their endeavours; the redhead just stuck his tongue out.

George looked dubious. “Wouldn’t that affect just regular old potions that use the same stuff?”

“Not if we’re only analysing the sale of the more rarer ingredients. Apparently stuff like boomslang skin is rather specialist – and you have to go very particular places to acquire it – and fluxweed, which you have to pick on a full moon; stuff like that is used in only a handful of other potions, which makes them good candidates to track, obviously on top of the stuff we need to be looking out for anyway – non-tradeables etc.” That was actually something he _had_ remembered. The Polyjuice potion was something that he wasn’t about to forget in a hurry, considering how often he Ron and Hermione had had to use it over the past few years. He was sure by now he could mix a batch in his sleep.

Fred and George became still for a moment.

“What sort of other stuff are you keeping tabs on, Hart?”

Harry glanced up to see them looking. “Plenty of things,” he said, making sure to sound vague and disinterested, but it couldn’t last. “How so?” he added, the tiniest curl of lip making itself known.

“Oh you know, we deal in the rare and exotic at times, just being nosy,” George said, in a pleasantly curious sort of tone, while Fred maintained careful eye contact. Oh, they were good.

Harry made apparent to scrunch up his face for a moment so it looked as though he was trying to remember the list of things. They didn’t falter. “Hermione’s the one to ask about all of that – but if it’s used in concealment, considered dangerous, or illegal to trade, someone’s trying to watch it.”

George ‘Hmmd’ neutrally and made to pour himself and Fred more tea.

Harry couldn’t resist. “Oh no, wait, ‘Venomous Tentacula Seeds’ are high up on that list, yeah, that’s right, Class C Non-Tradeable Substance – _really_ gona be watching out for those,” he said with a straight face. “Apparently there’s been an upsurge in children coming down with crazy symptoms after ingesting them – especially during class for some reason.”

George’s lip twitched.

“How unfortunate,” said Fred, his eyes twinkling.

Neither Wood nor Harry apparently noticed the look of relief that passed between the duo as these words.

“If you’re cracking down on non-tradeables, Harry, make sure Hagrid knows before all others,” interjected Wood.

Harry considered that for a moment. He was definitely right about that. “Yeah, that’s not a bad shout. Although considering the raids that happened not too long ago, and the business with the poultry farms – which I’m sure he’ll know about by now…” he said, trailing off slightly. “I reckon he’ll know to behave himself,” he concluded in a tone that was half certain, half hopeful.

“Yeah, he certainly doesn’t want to get mixed up in all that,” remarked George. “Especially with his track record, and the fact that they were apparently good friends…”

“That’s a dangerous combination if I ever I heard one,” said Wood, now picking at the glaze on his tea cup. “It’s probably for the best he did a runner.”

“Aptly put,” said Fred with a grin, now stretched out like a lion on his side of the sofa.

“Although,” George began, looking at Harry, “I’m assuming that we’re only assuming that?”

Harry caught the confusion sweep across Fred’s face as he tried to unravel what his twin had just said, but Harry knew what he was getting at. “Yeah, that’s right. In light of recent events we can’t rule out abduction,” he said, the slightest hint of exasperation creeping into the statement from the reminder that so many loose ends were now dangling in his Department. Sometimes, it made him physically ache with weariness: the dissatisfaction of putting out so much energy and not getting anywhere, or the excitement of new evidence just to have it simply bring with it its own slew of questions. It was maddening.

There was a lull in the conversation, but Harry could feel what was about to be said. It’s all he’d heard from people who he only saw from time to time, a sort of go-to question. But he found that the thought of resurrecting the conversation for the umpteenth time didn’t bother him, in fact, sat in the castle, with two people who could easily pass for Slytherins, it was almost appropriate.

“How’s the _other_ manhunt going, Harry?”

Like clockwork.

He took a final drink from his almost empty cup, and grimaced slightly when he got a mouthful of cold tea. “It’s frustrating. The best person to work out how to find this person, is the very person I’m trying to work out how to find.”

When all he heard in response was the wind whistling down the flue, and the distant sound of footfalls on stone, he glanced up, only to be met by two neutral expressions and a blank face.

“Put it this way, if he graded me on my progress, I’d probably get a T,” he went on, resting his chin in his palm and poring over the patterns of tea leaves that had clumped in the dregs. He wondered abjectly what a tiny giraffe could possibly portend, then made a note _not_ to ask Trelawney.

“I’m sorry fellas but you’ve lost me a bit. What is this about?” piped up Wood, now opting to rest his weight on his knees in what was clearly an eager posture.

The footsteps outside were now clearly audible outside the portrait, as was the distinct sound of female voices; Angelina, Katie and Alicia were clearly back from the changing rooms. He wasn’t sure he wanted to talk about this with them, so decided to just give the condensed version of the story for now.

His cup tinked against the treated wood as he put it back on the trolley, and he swallowed heavily. “As you probably know, we never recovered the remains of Severus Snape. All that was left in the boathouse when I went to retrieve him following the Battle, was two sets of footprints going to and from the place where his body had lain, and a trail of blood leading out of the door.”

 


	3. 8 to 6 to 2

_“To improve is to change; to be perfect is to change often.”_

_\- Winston Churchill_

 

_25 th August_

_‘Level 8, Atrium,’_ called a disembodied female voice from within the swaying golden lift that had just rattled into sight. The mesh collapsed with a sound of squeaking metal, and a throng of ruffled, cloaked men and women burst out of the confines. Disbanding in every direction, many were muttering to their colleagues, and shaking their heads at the thing they had just apparently exited. The diatribes didn’t last too long, however, once they came face to face with the debacle currently taking place around the fountain. Thinking better of it, many simply kept to the walls, and hurried off out of harm’s way rather than try and unravel what was happening.

The group currently waiting to file-in looked none too pleased either as they checked their watches, glanced behind them every few minutes at the commotion taking place, and looked expectantly at the scruffy, old, blue-clad maintenance wizard currently stood in the corner of the lift.

He called out loudly, to be heard over the humdrum, “Alright, everyone, in you come,” after a short moment.

A short distance away, a tall, red-headed man in spectacles strode purposefully across the floor towards the quickly filling cube, his derbys clicking on the polished stone in increasing volume with every step. But as he approached the crammed space, the mesh shut in front of him; Sod’s Law in full effect.  He tutted loudly and turned away to wait with the other stragglers who were occasionally flinching as thuds, crashes, and shouts started to come from behind them.

“Right,” proclaimed the blue-clad wizard as he put his wand away, and grasped for a handle, “let’s see if _this_ works.”

The lift jolted suddenly, began to lean backwards, made a movement not unlike a hiccough then went completely still. There was a chorus of groans from both inside and outside.

“Apparently not,” he continued, as he took his wand back out, made a semi-complicated movement with it, and tapped the wall; the lift shuddered, and a puff of yellow smoke came out of the wand tip. “Oh, _flaming hell._ ”

A rotund man in brown robes strained his large neck to look behind him. “What’s goin’ on with these things, Bernie? I thought you had it sorted.”

The old maintenance wizard looked like he wanted nothing more than the kick the damn thing, and call it a day. “It’s the _bloody_ statue, Julian,” he growled. “We’ve been tellin’ them all day that if they’re gona mess with old enchantments just to have a sodding quidditch display,” we waved his wand with more gusto this time, “then they’ll be shelving the blame when everything in a 50 ft radius stops workin’!”

The Fountain of Magical Brethren, which had indeed been causing quite a stir to both officials and general passers-by, had been festooned in British and Irish League quidditch strips in honour of the closing finals, and each figure thoroughly bewitched to life; locked in a rather animated game of Swivenhodge for the past half hour, it was much to the chagrin of anyone trying to walk through the atrium without risking their lives, which was essentially everyone in the Ministry.

“But trying to convince Games and Sports that they’re causing a health and safety issue is like trying to teach a dragon that breathing fire on people isn’t very nice,” huffed Bernie, now exiting the lift, and smacking his wand against the side panels, causing more shakes and smoke. “But never mind _maintenance_ , what do _they_ know? Just a department of fuddy-duddy’s to them.”

At present, the golden goblin and house elf had just batted the game’s signature pigs bladder with the bristle ends of the brooms, across the large net which had been erected across the statue platform. It sailed straight over the, equally gilded, witch and wizard, and straight into the smaller atrium hall where the lift entrances were housed, smacking with a wet thump into the balcony above the crowd’s heads. The yells of surprise were exacerbated when the refereeing centaur came thundering over to collect the puffy lump – now lying exactly where several officials had been standing – when he overshot a bit, barrelled through the scattering crowd, and collided hoof-first against the fubar elevator, jolting it back into action.

“I _knew it!_ ” shouted a spread-eagle Bernie over the disappearing screams of those inside. “All this pansy spell work coming from the high-ups; codswallop! When in doubt just give it a clout!” He slapped the ground in emphasis, before getting up, and walking off in the direction of the Floos. “Right, time for a quick fag.”

 _‘Whoever had had the foresight in that department to suggest to Bagman that giant magical golden statues playing quidditch in a room full of people probably wasn’t a good idea should receive an Order of Merlin,’_ thought the redhead as he began to pick himself up off the floor, and adjust his glasses. _‘Although, the muggle version of Swivenhodge, Tennis, would’ve perhaps been a better move, still.’_

He could only imagine the chaos of living in a world where Ludo was surrounded by yes-men; the _Recently Deceased_ column of the _Prophet_ may have ended up a bit more zaftig that day, for one.

 “Sleeping on the job, Weasley?” said a deep, steady voice from a short distance away.

The Weasley in question let his face fall into a pleasant expression, smoothed down his robes, and spun about to the source – although he needn’t have to deduce who had addressed him. “Well, Minister, it would’ve been a faux pas if I’d actually done so _during_ Ms Gorgonović’s highly interesting lecture on, _‘Niffler Poaching,’_ this morning. Taking a nap here, with the lifts out of sorts, I don’t feel quite so bad.”

Kingsley Shacklebolt regarded him in a commanding stance. Most would take the current look displayed on his face as highly unimpressed and even vexed, but underneath the scary-Minister stare, his twinkling eyes gave him away. He took a file of parchment from the support staff member standing beside him, relayed some information to her, and moved closer to the redhead as she scurried off. “You and me, both,” he said into a freckled ear in an undertone, raising a hand at a few individuals wishing him good morning.

The redhead smirked. “At least you got to leave after 10 minutes.”

The broad dark face widened in a controlled smile as he straightened up. “Yes, well, regrettably I was called away on important business.”

A claret eyebrow raised.

“The kettle had just boiled.”

The two men chortled under their breath, and the shorter man accepted the Minister’s wish to, “Walk with me,” out of the cramped lift-room, past the fountain, and slowly over to the large balcony which overlooked the heart of the atrium; they made sure to get as close to the side as possible, the risk of a rogue pig’s bladder to the back of the head still a firm possibility judging by the crude net far below that the Unspeakables had erected round the base of the Golden Wizard’s, now bereft, podium.

“First of all, I wanted to wish you a Happy Birthday. It was a few days ago if I remember correctly?” said Kingsley.

“Yes it was, and thank you.”

“I trust you had an enjoyable day?”

When a parrying house elf came rather close, the pair made to skirt around a bit further.

“It was,” said the smaller man, keeping one eye on the Minister and one on the bladder, “although the twins saw fit to insert a small shaving of erumpent horn into the sponge of the birthday cake – where they got it I can’t even begin to think. You can imagine the carnage once we began cutting into it…”

Kingsley grunted a laugh. “I thought after all these years, you’d have expected something like that by now.”

The redhead puffed up slightly and smirked rather uncharacteristically. “Yes, well, they soon got their comeuppance when I bought in a favour from Madam Edgecombe and linked their flooplace indefinitely with Muriel’s. Neither party was or still is pleased to say the least, especially since Fred and George’ll have to admit to an illegally operating port in order to get it fixed.”

The tall man stopped walking and gave out a proper laugh at that. “I’ve said it before, but you’ve definitely changed since the War, Weasley. For better or for worse, however, remains to be seen,” he added, raising an amused eyebrow at the smaller man who simply smiled tightly.

“Now, how are you finding work?” asked the Minister, once they were a bit more out of the way.

“I enjoy it profusely more than my old post; bigger department, lots of new faces. And I get a bigger office.”

“Glad to hear it,” Kingsley smiled.

“Not that I didn’t appreciate the last job, but it got a bit overwhelming at times; I usually didn’t mind the administration side of things, but even I had to admit defeat every once in a while when it came to parchment piles of that capacity,” continued the redhead, pursing his lips at the thought.

“Yes, my PA mutters the same every now and again when she thinks she’s out of earshot,” the Minister chuckled. “Although paperwork is actually why I wanted to talk to you.” He presented the folder of parchment that he’d received from the girl, and continued on in a slightly more serious tone. “As I’m sure you’re aware, I’m sent copies of any active official departmental investigation that goes on in this building, and this came into my intray from the Magical Reversal Squad Headquarters. One of the Obliviators was called out last week after a few muggles got into some trouble with what were believed to be enchanted objects, probably portkeys judging by the testimonials. I would have discarded it but some parts of the report struck me as…odd.”

The redhead took the offered file, and read the text on the cover.

 

**REPORT**

_from the_

DEPARTMENT OF MAGICAL ACCIDENTS AND CATASTROPHES SUB. H.Q. OF THE MAGIC REVERSAL SQUAD

_to_

CORENTIN TALBOT, HEAD DEPT. MAG. ACC. CAT.

C.C MINISTER FOR MAGIC AND SUPPORT STAFF

_on the_

Causes of and circumstances attending the items found in muggle possession at Milltown, Derbyshire on Friday the 20th August, 1999

By

MORGAN EMERY LEBLANC

Obliviator, Obliviator H.Q. Level 3 M.O.M [Trx. 328746]

 

“I thought it best for your department to take a look, just in case,” the tall wizard continued.

The shorter adjusted his glasses, looked up, and gave a firm nod. “Of course, no stone should be left unturned. I’ll give it my full attention.” The bespectacled wizard was slightly confused as to why the Minister would pass this to him personally rather than through the official departmental channels. It was clear that Shacklebolt was still finding it hard to draw the line between official and auror sometimes after his short stay in office.

Kingsley smiled. “Thank you Weasley, just don’t burn yourself out. I know these quidditch games coming up are affecting every department. Even the Unspeakables have been antsy.”

There was a loud SPLAT and a SNAP. The two men looked over. The flying pig’s bladder had apparently made contact with the Watchwizard’s security desk – currently covered in droves of Spello-tape – sending splintered wood and paper in every direction.

The redhead pursed his lips. “Speaking of games…”

The pair of them watched as the Watchwizard Eric Munch rose up in a fury. “3 TIMES!” he bellowed, as he picked up the bladder, and attempted to launch it over the balcony, screaming obscenities as if he’d been dying to all day.

Surprisingly, Kingsley watched the scene with a neutral expression. “Apparently the Supreme Mugwump hates Swivenhodge,” he said conversationally, even as a fight looked about to break out when the centaur’s quick save ensured the game’s continuance.

“Hates bodily fluids, organs, and such,” he continued. “Calls it a stupid, disgusting British sport.”

The grand clock in the Atrium chimed 11 o’ clock, and the Minister let loose a smile as he noticed. “Unlucky, as the courtrooms should be emptying soon.”

Sure enough, a few moments later, the sound of rattling caught the pair’s attention, and into the main hall outstepped a number of plum cloaked wizards in official looking hats.

“But a funny thing happens to the bladder if you try and, say, transfigure it,” Kingsley went on, watching as the mugwumps took note of the scene right in front of them, “which Uagadouan students have a particular skill in.”

The men nearly stepped back inside the lift-room in recoil when the bladder made a close pass, one chap nearly losing his hat, but a particular figure in the centre of the group looked deeply unsettled.

Eric Munch was still trying to end the game by attempting to pop the pink sack with his wand. “3 TIMES!” Although he kept missing, instead firing popping spells at the fountain which only managed to send waves of water everywhere.

A furious Mr Akingbade finally pushed his fellows, and the usually sedentary man, out of the way, and with a scoff of, “ _Shacklebolt,_ ” to himself, raised his hand into the air - oblivious to the pair watching him.

“Kingsley?”

“Yes Percy?”

“You aren’t lingering in the Atrium just to talk to me, are you.”

“Not entirely.”

Pointing his finger into the air at the thing, brow creasing evermore, the Supreme Mugwump uttered a spell under his breath at the bladder currently sailing in his direction, and smirked smugly when it began to slow down and change shape.

“I’m also to assume that Bagman was not involved with this display, was he.”

“No, Bagman was certainly involved...”

But there was suddenly a shriek, a SPLAT, and a THUD as the offending puffy lump, instead of turning into something pleasant, retained its normal form and zoomed towards the foreign wizard like a bludger. It exploded, bursting open over Akingbade, and sending him to the polished floor in a windmill of limbs and fluids.

Percy’s hands shot to his mouth so as not to add to the roar of disgust and shock ringing out through the massive space, as Kingsley turned to him with a satisfied expression. “…I just gave him the idea.”

And with that, the Minister adjusted his hat, wished Percy, “Good day,” and strode off into the throng of people collecting around the heaving man.

The 3rd Weasley brother could only close his eyes, and bring his fingers to his temples as Kingsley’s deep voice resonated above all others.

“Who looks like a Sasabonsam NOW?”

 

* * *

 

 Percy was still shaking his head as the female voice piped up, ‘ _Level 6, Department of Magical Transportation, incorporating the Floo Network Authority, Broom Regulatory Control, Portkey Office, and Apparition Test Centre.’_

He exited the cramped space, and made his way down the wooden panelled corridor; the heavy, double doors at the end groaned slightly as he pushed them open, and he stepped out into the open space. The transportation department was always more alive than any other department in the ministry. Memos were constantly WHIZZING overhead, POPS and WHOOSHES could be heard from a distance caused by the Floo Authority on the far side of the floor, and the there was always a cacophony of CRACKS and BLIPS coming from the Portkey and Apparition sectors tossed in for good measure. Luckily, one only had to cope with the din whilst moving through the corridors and such, otherwise many would’ve probably moved to a different department by now.

He had always likened this floor to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. He didn’t know how Fred and George worked in such a racket.

Eventually, after taking many stairs, and turns – he always thought it ironic that the Transportation Dept. had the most ridiculous floorplan – the prim redhead reached his office which overlooked the Atrium far below. Adjacent to his was the Head of Department’s, although the man was never in; but being in charge of the floor that licensed the brooms for Games and Sports’ various jollies, and dealt with a Knight Bus that crashed into as much traffic as it dodged, it wasn’t hard to figure out why.

 

STODDARD BRIDGEWATER, HEAD DEPT. MAG. TRANS.

 

The knock went unanswered – as expected - and Percy simply decided to hand him the report later, giving him the opportunity to leaf through it himself. He opened his own office, ignited the lamps with a lazy flick of his wand, and sat heavily into his chair. But as he looked up to glance out of the window, he was greeted not with a regal, pristine image of the British government hard at work in their offices, but rather something that made him gasp. The entire window had been graffiti’d over with large floo powder-green, backwards letters, displaying a message clearly visible to the entire Atrium.

 

PERCY WEASLEY

FLOOPLACE: 24 SHERRINGFORD COURT, LONDON

DROP-IN FOR A _GOOD TIME_ ;-)

 

What on _Earth_ -

He strode over to the glass, and gave it an experimental scratch with his thumbnail; the marks didn’t budge. Taking an old glass of water on his desk and throwing it over the lettering made no effect either, even after taking a corner of the curtain to it as well. Panicking slightly, he took out his wand and went through every cleaning charm he knew, but it thankfully wasn’t long before he located a removal spell that did the trick, to some extent. One didn’t grow up under a witch like Molly Weasley without learning how to deal with a myriad of stains.

He knew in an instant who the culprits were, however they couldn’t’ve got in without help. But, again, he didn’t have to ponder long to figure out who that inside man may be.

And without so much as a backwards glance, he was striding to the lifts once more, the POPPING and WHOOSHING noises now spurring him on. It’d been a while since he paid Level 2 a visit anyway.

.

 

Naturally, the lift only made it to Level 4 before giving out; Sod’s Law still fully operational since this morning. Percy wasn’t the only one who let fly a string of curses.

“Bloody things,” scowled Reg Cattermole, smacking his wand against the thing in a very Bernie-esque manner. “I’m afraid you’ll have to clear out for a mo’ or use another lift while I sort this out, this might get violent,” he said, some form of grim satisfaction creeping into his voice as he rolled up his blue maintenance sleeves.

The box grudgingly emptied, and with most now crowding around the other lift hatches, Percy reluctantly walked across the foyer to wait on the opposite side next to a large circular aquarium filled with Plimpies.

But after a while it was rather hard to keep up such a level of anger with the round little gormless fish colliding with the glass. The last time he’d been in the Department of the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, the Grindylow which had lived in the tank at the time had managed to not only escape, but navigate the entire floor, and somehow end up in one of the men’s toilets. Luckily security had found it quick enough, but not so lucky for the chap who’d had the initial honour.

A commotion began breaking out after a few more moments, and Percy looked up with the expectation of seeing people filing back inside the gilded lift, but the raised voices weren’t coming from the lifts, they were coming from his left, down the corridor to be exact.

A short, stocky blonde man was talking rather overzealously to a pair of wizards as they walked up the corridor towards Percy. But by the looks of things, the two others weren’t looking so happy with the conversation, and, in fact, seemed rather exasperated.

“I know it’s all short notice, chaps, but I think it would be excellent fun! It’s never happened before, and I think the spectators would love it! It’d be just like the World Cup! A real show!”

Percy recognised that voice at once. Bagman. But what on Earth was he doing up here? Rather uncharacteristically, he found himself moving over to the entrance to the corridor, leaning on the wall so as to hear a little more clearly.

“Yes, yes you’ve already said all that, Ludo, and we’ll _consider it,_ just like we said we would,” said one of the other wizards.

His fellow soon joined in. “We’ll make some inquiries but you’re right, this is short notice, and it’s unlikely a keeper will agree to it, these things take _careful_ planning! All SORTS of deliberati-“

“I’m sure you’ll make it work, gents,” interjected Bagman smugly, to who - Percy now realised - was Amos Diggory, and a bushy fellow with glasses who he’d seen his father talking to on occasion.

“No, Bob’s right, Ludo,” said Amos halting their walk, and answering Percy’s question. “It’s no good getting excited about this yet when it’s unlikely to happen.”

Bagman, however, didn’t seem to be in receipt - or aware for that matter - of their concerns, and continued to smile glazedly ahead.

“Enchantment has come along way in the past few years, you’d probably get better results from a well placed bewitching charm, and far more scope for forms, too,” Amos went on, eyeing him curiously.

“It’s what they did in Ilvermony a few years back,” supplied Bob, “and no-one was any the wiser either from what I hear!”

“Are you telling me we’re no better than the yanks for putting on a show?” boasted Ludo, turning to face them. “I won’t have it chaps, I won’t-“

There was a yell of, ‘BOMBARDA!’ on the other side of the foyer, eclipsing the conversation, a loud BANG, a CLATTER, and then the voice of Reg announcing the lift to be working once more, ‘albeit temporarily’. But as the group started to file back  in rather noisily, Percy found himself stealing back to listen to the ongoing conversation.

“-especially for all four at any rate!” stated Bob. “The time restraint’s one thing, but the clashes, it could be a real bloodbath!”

“Not if transported correctly!” proclaimed Ludo. “I’ve already paid a visit to Stoddy on Level 6 and-“

“Let us APPROVE the damn business first before anyone else is brought in on this,” said Amos, sounding as if he was at the end of his tether. “Especially,” he caught himself and lowered his voice, “if you’re aiming for any hint of secrecy.”

But Percy couldn’t wait any longer, if he hung around for the next lift he’d probably be stranded for quite some time. And with that thought he moved away from the corridor, and made slowly towards the grills.

“Just promise us, Ludo, not to go shooting your mouth off, people are on edge after those raids, an-“

But that’s all Percy caught as walked out of earshot and into the lift which jerked noisily upwards. As they reached, ‘ _Level 3,’_ and some witches extricated themselves, Percy went over what he’d just heard. Bagman chatting clandestinely to various members of the Ministry was certainly not an uncommon occurrence, but whatever this was, it sounded interesting in the least.

When the voice eventually called out, _‘Level 2: Department of Magical Law Enforcement,’_ Ludo’s shady business suddenly disappeared as he remembered what he was up here for in the first place. And with a slightly put-upon passion, Percy was down the corridor before he could hear the rest of the announcement. He hung a left, pushed open the double doors, and strode out into the bustling Auror Headquarters.

The room was one of the largest spaces in the Ministry, save for the atrium, with a high domed ceiling and ornate black tiled walls. Far in front was a space filled with cubicles, each playing host to an auror either furiously working away at their desk, or hanging around one of their neighbours’ areas for a chat.

As he passed a few rows, and evaded a few low flying memos, he saw that the British and Irish Quidditch League finals posters were inhabiting many of the small ‘offices,’ either scrunched up on a desk or haphazardly stuck to a filing cabinet. He recalled abjectly what Kingsley had said about Quidditch fever taking over most of the Ministry; he certainly hadn’t been wrong. It definitely made one question the topics of the many conversations taking place around him, and how many were, indeed, work related.

It didn’t take him long to locate the correct cubicle, as the owner of it had a rather vibrant shade of hair quite similar to his own.

With a slap worthy of Charlie, his palm collided with the dark wood desk hard enough to make the resident auror nearly jump out of his skin in fright.

“Bloody hell!” shouted Ron, who had been facing the other way to pull on a coat. He jerked around, and was about to launch into a curse when he saw who it was. “Ah.”

“Hello Ronald,” said Percy, coolly. “Going somewhere so soon?”

“Blimey, that entrance was worthy of Fred and George,” he said, taking note of the way his brother’s eyes seemingly pierced into his head. “I think they’re rubbing off on you a bit.”

Percy narrowed his eyes. “I disagree, I think they’re rubbing off on you more than me.” He placed both his palms flat on the surface, and hardened his voice. “ _Drop in for a **GOOD TIME?!** ”_

Ron had the decency to look a tad sheepish, but it was mingled with amusement. “I dunno what you’re on about.”

“You could’ve gotten me in serious trouble, Ronald!” seethed Percy. “I don’t care if the twins put you up to it, it was incredibly immature! You’re lucky I don’t report you!”

“Oh come off it,” said Ron, dropping all pretences when his career security came up, “the fact that you’re here means you got it off, you’d’ve never left your office like that, and if you _had_ been sacked then you wouldn’t have snuck in here all clandestine, you’d just start hexing me right off the bat, so I think we can assume that our little prank went unnoticed-”

Percy opened his mouth to interject.

“MOSTLY unnoticed,” corrected Ron, “and, that balance has been restored to the Universe.” Ron looked him up and down. “And anyway, you should know better than to mess with them. The cake is practically tradition now. Consider you both Even Stevens.”

Percy had no choice but to concede that point. It pained him. “Where are you going anyway, it isn’t lunchtime yet,” he asked tersely.

Ron perked up. “Going to Hogwarts to watch Gryffindor practise, they’re on at half-past, wanna come?” he asked, cheekily.

Percy scoffed. “Sorry, my shift is strictly 8 til 6. And anyway if I see Fred and George I may jeopardize Gryffindor’s chances of winning the tournament.”

Ron grinned. “Suit yourself.”

“Your superior gave you permission to go?” asked Percy, hoping not so he could make himself feel better by getting Ron into trouble.

“Yeah, Robards joked if he didn’t have the Malfoy’s coming in for a meeting he might’ve gone himself just to get some air. He’s alright, is Robards.”

Percy became interested. “The Malfoys?”

Ron put his hands in his pockets and took on a slightly grim expression. “Yeah, they’re in there now,” he said, indicating to an inlaid office across the large room, where four people could be partially seen talking through a window with half drawn blinds.

“They looked awful when they came in,” continued Ron, lowering his voice a bit. “Real shabby and gaunt, we reckon they’ve had death threats from all the confessions.”

Percy looked from Ron to the window, and spotted the visitors in question. Ron certainly hadn’t been wrong. Even from this distance he could see they were noticeably gaunt. Mrs Malfoy didn’t seem to be wearing her usual pristine coat or jewellery, and Mr Malfoy was slouching visibly as they sat across from two wizards in grey robes.

“I mean it’s good for us cause it means we have something to work with, but bad for them,” finished Ron, looking like he felt a bit sorry for them. “Don’t even know what she’s doing in, usually just Lucius.”

Percy’s eyes locked onto a man who he didn’t recognise immediately. “Who’s that in with them, not Robards, the other one.”

Ron looked about. “Oh that’s Janus LaFey, he’s the Director of the Department of Investigation, real hush-hush that bloke, barely see him. Harry reckons something’s really cooking if he’s getting involved, nothing good knowing our luck.”

Percy watched as the silver haired man sat stock still in his chair, regarding the Malfoys across the desk like an hawk-eagle while they spoke. Even when Robards passed him a slip of parchment he didn’t once avert his gaze, simply placed it down in front of him, and steepled his fingers once again. The more he looked, the more Percy thought there was actually something familiar about the man, like he’d seen him before but couldn’t place exactly when or where.

LaFey made a small movement with his head as Mrs Malfoy began dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief, her shoulders beginning to shake from what appeared to be an emotional moment, before fully turning his head to his right and looking directly at Ron and Percy through the glass.

Percy blanched slightly as the eyes made contact with his, and he quickly looked away, feeling rather rude for staring.

But LaFey simply raised his wand after a moment, and the blinds slowly closed between them, locking them away from the rest of the world.

“Anyway,” said Ron, after a short moment, breaking the spell. “I better be off if I want to get there on time.”

Percy dragged his eyes from the Head Office, and looked peevishly towards Ron once more. “I mean it though, Ronald, no more messing with my office. If the twins have a point to prove then they can come, and bloody well do it themselves.”

Ron snorted. “Looks like they’ve already proven their point,” he said, pointedly glancing at the back of Percy’s robes, and laughing more openly. “See you later,” he managed before walking quickly past Percy and out of sight.

The elder Weasley instantly turned, and grabbed a handful of his robes to see what on Earth was so funny. Emblazoned across his backside in the same floo powder-green writing were the words:

 

Percy Weasley Wants You

Drop in for a good time!

 

in the style of an old World War I recruitment poster, with a crude arrow pointing from the word ‘in’ down to a very private part of his anatomy.

When he’d sat down on his office chair…

He didn’t understand what came over him; he started to laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: *Uagadou is the Ugandan wizarding school, located atop the Mountains of the Moon in western Uganda. It takes students from all over Africa, and is the largest of the eleven wizarding schools. Uagadou students were skilled in Astronomy, Alchemy and Self-Transfiguration. Since wands were mostly a European invention, Uagadou students preferred and were able to cast spells by pointing the finger or through hand gestures.


End file.
